A Love Story
by The Phantom
Summary: A 'Moulin Rouge' fic, the likes of which has never been seen before... can't summarize because that would give everything away...


Disclaimer: I own none of the characters.

Author's Notes: This one came to me while watching MR at a sleepover. I rushed home and immediately wrote this. Please enjoy. 

A Love Story

            It was quiet.

            That was the first thing Toulouse noticed when he woke up. For weeks, there had been the constant tick tacking of a typewriter going in the room below. But now, silence.

            Hurrying out of bed and into his clothes, he peered down through the hole in the ceiling. 

            Sure enough, there was Christian sitting in his usual spot. But instead of writing, he just sat there, motionless.

            "Chwistian?" Toulouse called softly.

            No response.

            "Chwistian!" he repeated, a little louder.

            This time, something happened. The writer below stirred from his position, lifting his head to look at the man above him.

            Christian's face was streaked with tears, unshaven, and he had a haunted look in his eyes. 

            "I wrote our story, Toulouse." He said in a choked whisper.

            Instantly, the little man was coming down the stairs…

            ~

            Two hours later, Toulouse carefully set down the last page of the manuscript. He wiped away his own tears and looked over at Christian.

            The boy was sitting on his bed, looking towards the broken-down Moulin Rouge, his eyes full of sorrow.

            "Chwistian…" Toulouse began, but he could not finish. 

            "I wrote our story." Christian repeated, his voice distant.

            "It's beautifuw, Chwistian." Toulouse assured.

            Both fell silent, unable to say anything. The poet spoke again.

            "Our love will live forever. Satine… Satine would have been proud…"

            Toulouse shivered. The boy spoke with such conviction… as if…

            His thoughts were interrupted when Christian doubled over in a violent coughing fit. His body shook and jerked with the force of it, and Toulouse rushed to his side.

            "Chwistian…" he moaned, trying to soothe away the pain. 

            Eventually, the coughing subsided. Wheezing for air, Christian looked up, his eyes hazy. 

            "Mmm…" he nodded slowly. "I'll be with her soon… together forever…"

            Stepping away from the pitiful sight, Toulouse turned away, wringing his hands. He hated seeing Christian in this state… he remembered when the boy had first come to Montmarte, full of hopes, and dreams, and Bohemian ideals. Truth. Beauty. Freedom. Love. 

            And the Sparkling Diamond had dragged him down into the Underworld.

            "Toulouse…"

            "Yes, Chwistian." 

            The diminutive artist remained with his back turned. 

            "Do you think I could get it published…?"

            "I'm sure you could, Chwistian."

            "Good… I want the world to know…"

            Clasping his hands together in a fervent gesture of prayer, Christian looked heavenward.

            "Oh Satine… I'll tell everyone our story…"

            Another bout of coughing seized him, and he clutched at his chest in pain. Holding a handkerchief to his mouth, he smiled grimly and showed it to Toulouse.

            Blood.

            "Soon, Satine…"

            ~

            The ornate carriage pulling up outside of the shabby building couldn't have looked more extreme.

            It was a brilliant blue, with gold trim, and drawn by two magnificent white horses.

            The door opened, the little steps fell into place, and a beautiful woman descended. 

            Although hopelessly out of place, she seemed to know exactly what she wanted, and moved slowly in the door, and up the stairs, towards the second-from-the-top garret…

            Once she opened the door, her heart constricted.

            This could not be Christian.

            This shivering, weeping young man could not be the brilliant young poet that had come to Montmarte to live a penniless existence.

            But when he raised his head and looked at her out of tormented grey eyes, she knew.

            "Christian?" she asked quietly.

            "Hello…" he greeted.

            His voice was thin and a bit hoarse, cracking a little on his sickened throat.

            She wanted to move towards him, anything, but she simply remained rooted to the spot.

            She was still standing there, staring at him, when a small figure appeared at her side.

            "So gwad you could come, my wady."

            Shaking her head, she sighed.

            "No need for the formalities, Toulouse."

            He sighed as well.

            "I'm afwaid… it's about his time."

            Gulping, she fanned her face to keep the tears in. 

            What was wrong with her? Why could she not accept the fact that was sick and dying? Soon, he would leave the world forever, and her husband would rest easy. And yet, she still had feelings for this miserable figure…

            "I'm sowwy, Satine…"

            ~

            Moments later, Satine was sitting in Toulouse's garret, having a trip down memory lane. She remembered the times spent here, rehearsing with the Bohos, and romancing Christian.

            'Come what may…'

            His broken voice drifted up from the garret below, and she shivered.

            Although she didn't have to worry.

            After all, she was the Duchess of Monroth. She didn't have to be afraid of anything.

            Charles would take care of everything, like he'd been taking care of her for the past year since their marriage.

            And yet, Christian's voice lifted itself to her ears, and she listened to the broken-hearted notes of his song.

            'I will love you… until my dying… day…'

            She shuddered again, taking a dainty sip from her coffee to distract herself from that haunted melody.

            "Satine?"

            She jerked from her reverie when Toulouse spoke her name.

            "Yes, Toulouse…" she said a bit breathlessly.

            He shuffled over and sat down facing her. After a moment of studying his fingers nervously, he spoke to her.

            "I'm sowwy I bwought you here, Satine. I know… it must be hard for you to see him wike this. But… he needs you. Just… see him… one wast time…"

            He glanced up at her, his dark eyes huge and pleading.

            "Do it for the man you once loved…" he begged.

            An awkward silence.

            "Alright. I'll see him."

            ~

            Standing in the doorway again, Satine gazed at him for a moment. He was leaner, and his face was scruffy-looking due to his short beard.

            "Christian?" she said.

            He glanced up at her blankly.

            "Hello." He said, firmer than before, but still sounding a bit clueless.

            She moved into the room, walking over to the corner he was sitting in.

            "Christian, don't you remember me?"

            He squinted at her, cocking his head.

            "You look familiar…"

            Taking a deep breath to steel her nerves, she told him.

            "It's me, Satine."

            Suddenly and without warning, he lurched to his feet, crashing past her and into the wall. He whirled around, flattening himself against it.

            "Satine… Satine is dead…." His voice caught. "She died…"

            "No, Christian, I'm right here…"

            "Satine is dead!" he howled.

            But the fervor triggered a fit of coughing, and he sank to his knees, struggling for air. Satine saw with horror the flecks of blood that appeared on his lips.

            Spinning on her heel, she raced from the room.

            ~

            "Why is he like this, Toulouse?" she wailed.

            "Satine, pwease sit down."

            She obeyed quickly, watching intently as Toulouse moved over to his chair and sat down with a heavy sigh.

            "Satine… this isn't going to be easy, but… Chwistian went mad when you weft him."

            "What do you mean?"

            She phrased her question slowly and deliberately, for in her heart she knew the answer would be all the things she feared.

            "When you went to the Gothic Tower…" he paused, checking to made sure she remembered that night, so she nodded, and he continued, "And you accepted the Duke's pwoposal of mawwiage…" Toulouse gestured uselessly. "As soon as he found out, he lost his mind. He went on a dwinking spwee, and awmost killed himself. And he's been staying in his gawwet, witing your stowy."  

            Satine buried her face in her hands. She'd known it was a bad idea from the start, leading that poor little poet on. She'd loved him, yes, but not with the passion that he'd loved her. And when Charles –the Duke- had offered to take her hand in marriage and make her a duchess, she didn't refuse. 

            "I had no idea…" she groaned, knowing that Christian's sorrow was all her fault.

            "But there's more." Toulouse said grimly. "He wote your stowy, awight. Here, wet me show it to you…"

            ~

            By the time Satine finished the manuscript, her make-up was hopelessly smeared and ruined. Tears dripped steadily down her cheeks and onto her fine dress. And she didn't care.

            "Oh Toulouse…" she breathed. "And he thinks it was all real…"

            The artist nodded.

            "He still thinks you had consumption and died. He thinks that you wan to his arms that night, and you decided to wun away. And there were twists and turns, and a final, magnificent performance of 'Spectacular! Spectacular!' in which you confessed your love. And then you died in his arms."

            "But… where did he get the idea of consumption?"

            Toulouse shrugged. 

            "Appawently, he'd been cawwying the disease for several years. It started showing symptoms three days after you weft him."

            They sat in silence, contemplating. The only sound was of barking coughs from the garret below.

            And then, Satine knew what to do.

            ~

            "Christian."

            He looked up at her, his eyes bleary, his lips and hands stained with his own blood.

            "Satine…?" he whispered.

            For there she stood, her fiery red hair cascading down her shoulders, wearing the flashy eye make-up and stylish eyebrows that she hadn't drawn on for too long.

            "I believe you were expecting me." She purred.

            "Satine…" he said again, reaching for her.

            She knelt so that he could embrace her, his head dropping weakly onto her shoulder.

            "Satine… are you taking me with you…?"

            "Yes, darling…" she soothed.

            The coughing came again, and she lowered him carefully down so that she cradled his upper body in her lap and arms. One delicate hand stroked the dark hair from his face.

            "Oh Christian…"

            "I love you, Satine… my angel…"

            Even as his breath began to grow labored and exhausting, she sang softly to him.__

_            'And there's no mountain too high_

_            No river too wide_

_            Sing out this song and I'll be there_

_            By your side_

_            Storm clouds may gather_

_            And stars may collide_

_            But I love you_

_            Until the end_

_            Of_

_            Time…'_

When she finished, she kissed him, long and sweet, tasting his last breath. And even as she pulled her lips away, he slowly drifted to the ground, lifeless.

            "Wait for me, Christian…" she whispered.

            ~

            The book was an international hit.__

_            Moulin Rouge: A Love Story_

And everyone knew that every word of it was absolutely true.

            ~ The End


End file.
